


Open Roads and Broken Hearts

by fusrodie



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Awkward Side Hugs, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Moving On, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusrodie/pseuds/fusrodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After traveling with Danse for a while, Evangeline can't deny she feels something else for the Paladin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Roads and Broken Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been meaning to write about the first time my Sole Survivor realized that, maaaaybe, she was falling for the tin can man. Looks back on my Sole Survivor's relationship with her husband before the war, hints on possible friends-to-lovers in the future.

She wonders what he would say if he could see her now. Something to annoy her, surely, some sarcastic one liner about how the tables had turned and she had become the monster she’d always feared shared her bed. Or maybe he would laugh, loud, tears in his eyes, head thrown back, smile stretching the corners of his lips, sadness underneath. Evangeline Pierce had never been one for the great outdoors. Not one for the soldier life, either: fair, kind, full of questions, not a clue as to how to hold a weapon much less fire it. Nate used to whisper, after nightmares had forced him awake, that it was a good thing she would never become a killer like he had.

She wonders what he would say if he could see her now, sitting cross legged on a hand-sewn bedroll under the moonlit sky, campfire burning bright, half-empty canteen of dirty water, chunks of meat roasted on a stick. She hears gunshots in the distance, heavy footsteps much closer, a buzzing sound as the safety is switched off and a laser weapon revs up. There is dirt and grime under her fingernails, the skin of her calves is peeling away, she has blisters in all the wrong places, calloused fingers and bandaged wounds that burned with every step she takes, but none of this is new, none of it unusual. Nate had never been wrong, but it mattered little in the end: armor, painted insignia on her chestplate, uniform under it, holotags hanging from a crude chain around her neck. Brotherhood of Steel.

Knight was her rank and soldier was her name, not Evangeline, not Evan, like he had stopped being Nate and had become _medic_ instead. A number, a pawn, a death who wouldn’t be honored. He had enlisted to be a part of something bigger than himself, to serve others, save lives, the needs of another taking priority over his own. He had killed, and cried, and done good and bad, but she had caused double the bloodshed with none of his good intentions, manipulated, bluffed. A lie on top of another, as if the guilt hadn’t been enough from the start.

Nights like these she needs to remember, remember why the murder and deceit, why put herself through fear and pain. Her grip tightens on the stock of the rifle, oily rag sliding down the barrel with a bit too much force, weeks have gone by and the memories of her son are all she has left. Memories that don’t belong to her, memories of a child she did not recognize, not the baby that had been placed in her arms, that had cooed and cried and brought her so much joy. Memories of a boy who did not remember her, who lived with a man cold-blooded enough to put a bullet in her husband’s head, who’d grown away from her love. His words had torn her apart, _home, father,_ she chases after a child whose life she is not part of.

Hands sneak down before she knows it,  past her belly button over the coarse fabric of her uniform, to trace the scar that reassures her all of this is real. A straight line that hadn’t healed quite well, that she had glided her fingers over time and again while she stood in front of the mirror, broken skin that would never mend fully. She used to worry, that perhaps Nate would love her less because of it, and it is both ironic and silly to imagine her biggest insecurity is all she has left. Her fingers still ghost over the scar, but for different reasons now: tears running down her face when they told her the baby was in danger, Nate fighting through his own tears to comfort her, hearing Shaun cry for the first time. The expression on her husband’s face when he held their son, her head hitting the pillow as she laughed, relieved and happy. She had come too far to give up now.

“Pierce,” he calls from a distance, but she barely registers it, busy scrubbing rather than wiping her weapon, frustrations laid upon the metal. “Evan,” he tries again after a minute, brings her out of a bad daydream, head tilting up to answer. _Paladin,_ she means to say, but her voice cracks and her eyes burn, resolve faltering when what she finds is his eyes is affection, open and sincere, so unlike the Danse she thought she knew. He had never called her by name, not in front of others nor when they were alone, not even when he had felt the need to tell her she had earned his trust and respect, when he had called her a _friend_.

She wants to hang onto him like Haylen had done, muster up her courage to find shelter in his arms even for a mere minute, until her tears have dried and she can smile again. But she can’t, if out of pride or shame she doesn’t know, and settles for putting down the gun and swallowing her tears, rough hands brushing away the ones she couldn’t hold back. She had promised herself not a soul would see her cry, learn how much her chest tightened when she thought of everything she had lost. She means to apologize, he is her superior and this shows a lack of professionalism on her part, but she forgets how to string two words together when he sits beside her by the fire, pulls her close until her head is resting against his shoulder. She lets out a sob so pathetic it would have made her laugh at any other time, but Danse never says a word. He sits and waits until she is done, brings her closer still when she shifts and buries her face on the crook of his neck. He is solid and warm under her touch, real, whole, and for once she feels like she’s not alone.

Danse gives her the sincerest of smiles when she pulls away, informs her he will resume his watch and she should get some rest. They will talk in the morning, or not at all if she believes it will be better that way. Evan chuckles without a drop of humor when he is out of earshot, listens as the valve is turned and the Power Armor clicks. Somber, conventional, detached, single-minded Danse, whose attitude had hit on her nerves, whom she’d played and judged a fool. Compassionate, determined, caring Danse, who had managed to find his way into her heart, whom she’d gone out of her way to protect. She had tried, and given up, lying that he was not part of the reason she had stayed, pretended not to hear absurds and feel the danger.

Nate would laugh, like he did when he told her to move on, to find someone new if the war took him. She had assured him there would never be anybody else, no one that could compare, and he had called her foolish, said she deserved better than being married to a ghost. He would miss the spark in her eyes, how beautiful she looked when she stared at him with so much love, but one day someone else would have the joy of feeling the same, and their love would push her forward, their love would make her better.

He would laugh, because losing him hurts less every day and the guilt gives her pause, because she says Danse is a brute she would never come to love, but there is no mistaking what she hides in her heart.

**Author's Note:**

> You know when it’s three in the morning, you worked all day but can’t go to sleep because you need to write? This is the result. Will quite possibly become part of something bigger as I get to the romance proper and (likely) fall in love even more with Danse.


End file.
